


there is rapture in this lonely shore

by gingersprite



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, But Still No Plot, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fix-It, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Pegging, Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-21 06:01:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19997020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingersprite/pseuds/gingersprite
Summary: As part of their ongoing efforts to heal from their pasts, Sansa and Theon explore a somewhat unconventional approach to pleasure; it might take some trial and error, but the results are worth it.





	there is rapture in this lonely shore

**Author's Note:**

> This is so embarrassing, I don't know how I got through writing this. I'm just gonna... leave this here.
> 
> RE: the tags, there is a paragraph early on where a character has a panic attack and recalls past sexual abuse. It isn't graphically described, but the language is fairly blunt and leaves little to the imagination, so keep that in mind. It's used purely as set up for the feelings part of the "porn with feelings"; all of the sex that happens here is completely, enthusiastically consensual.

It was such a simple thing, unassuming, but for Sansa it might as well have been a cask of wildfire. She had been sitting at her desk now for nearly thirty minutes, observing it as it lay in the plain box Jeyne had delivered to her. The piece wasn’t realistic, which should have put her at ease, but she found it was impossible to divorce the object from its intended purpose. Tucked along with it was a sheaf of instructional papers, but they contained no new information; Sansa had been sure to do her research beforehand. 

Tentatively, she reached out a single finger and ran it along the length of it. The leather was burnished smooth and had been skillfully molded so there was no seam except at the base, which was attached to several straps. Slipped over the whole thing was a band with a curved protrusion, the leather softer and more flexible that the rest of the piece. If the main object’s function wasn’t obvious enough, this additional piece certainly did the job.

Sansa glanced over her shoulder at the wall across from her desk, relieved that from this angle the object was obscured from the portraits of her parents. It shouldn’t have mattered one way or the other, but she found in that moment that it very much did; it was hard enough looking at the thing without having to imagine what her mother and father would think. She had cross-stitched the portraits herself, paying close attention to the eyes and how they looked at one another; those soft, heart-achingly gentle gazes they would share across the supper table, or as they watched over their children from the ramparts of Winterfell.

Growing up, Sansa had found the story of how her parents’ marriage began to be a rather boring one, especially when compared to the dramatic tales and romantic ballads she’d swooned over as a girl. But when they shared such looks it was plain to see the strength of their devotion, and that had reassured her that she would have a love like that someday. Once she had reached an age where her parents found it appropriate to broach the subject of marriage to her, she’d pestered her mother for details about her own union.

“When did you first know you loved Father? Was it when the Septon pronounced you married?” she had asked eagerly. Catelyn shook her head fondly at this, glancing up momentarily from her needlework, never slowing her stitches.

“No sweetling, not then. But I trusted that he would be kind and fair to me, just as your father and I will make sure your future husband is.” Sansa found this answer thoroughly unsatisfying, and had no qualms about making her feelings known.

“But when did you _love_ him?” she demanded further. “Was it… the wedding night?” It was improper for young ladies to speak of such things, but how could they expect her not to be the least bit curious about it, especially when everyone tried to shield it from her? She’d overheard Robb and Theon (mostly Theon) whispering crude jokes and making obscene gestures on more than one occasion, but they were just foolish boys playing at being men. Surely her lady mother would be much more knowledgeable than them.

Catelyn hesitated, eyes locked on her work. Arya may have been the wilder of her daughters, but Sansa could certainly make trouble in her own way.

“No, not then either.” Sansa frowned at that, her brows making a little crinkle on her doll-like face.

“But Father was good to you then, wasn’t he?” 

Cat sighed, realizing that there was no escaping this talk with her precocious little daughter. She set aside her needlework and turned her focus entirely to Sansa, pausing as she thought through her next words.

“Yes, sweetling, your father was very good to me. He was kind, and gentle, just as any lord should be with his new wife.” Cat explained, her hand coming to cup her daughter’s rosy cheek and stroke away any hint of a frown. “But I didn’t love him yet. That took time to build, and much work; but it was so very, very worth it. Just as it will be with you and your own husband.”

Sansa’s own wedding nights had been a far cry from the hesitant, gentle touches she was sure her parents first shared: the first one marked by the thick, churning fear in anticipation, while the second one was clouded with unimaginable agony. She refused to let herself think about either one for long, though, times when men had been permitted to take and take and take from her; the first time she had ever given herself to a man had been soft and careful and loving, because it had been with Theon.

He never asked for more than she could give, as she never did with him, and together they had gently explored their pleasures, finding ways to make their wounded, abused bodies sing. It was beautiful, and wholly theirs; but it took some effort, and required different techniques than other couples. Sometimes she wished it didn’t have to be so, this reminder of how much their sufferings had changed them both, and so she had broached the subject to Theon, careful so as not to make him feel lesser. He had flushed furiously at her suggestion, but agreed to try. Now that she had the required object, though…

Sansa was interrupted by the opening of the main chamber door, announcing the arrival of the man in question. Theon called her name and she responded in kind, struggling to keep her voice light and unburdened. This would work, she would make sure of it.

He came into her study with an enormous grin across his face, his hair still looking slightly windblown from his time in the training yard.

“Thom is making excellent progress with his archery,” Theon all but gushed with pride, as he always did when talking about the boy’s achievements. “His aim is much improved since he began, it won’t be long until he’s ready to go on his first hunt.” He puttered about the place, putting away his things, looking so carefree and beautiful it nearly hurt. Sansa could only make a small hum of agreement, not trusting her voice to stay steady. The parcel still sat across her lap, the tool inside it looking as innocuous as a venomous snake.

Of course, silent or not, she could never keep her concerns a secret from Theon. He looked over at where she sat, confusion written across his face, until his eyes fell to the box.

“Ah,” he cleared it throat, nerves apparent. “So that’s it, then? The… the thing?” She nodded stiffly and he inched over to her until he could see the object lying there in all its glory. Breathing a shaky breath through his nose, he plucked the item from its box and held it up to examine it better. He turned it about, passed it carefully from hand to hand, ran the uncalloused inside of his finger along it to feel its softness.

As he did so, Sansa felt her breath quicken, coming in short and uneven starts that made her head start to spin. What a fool she was, thinking this would work. She had trusted Theon with all of her broken pieces and he had proven that he’d earned that trust night after night, soothing her wounds with his fingers and lips and tongue, but now she’d thought to give him a mimicry of the very weapon that had been used against her over and over again and expected it to turn out differently this time. Hadn’t Ramsay shown her as much, night after night, abusing every hole she had until she bled? Even now she could swear she felt her blood between her thighs, and his foul spend, tacky on her skin, and her gorge rose in her throat, she had to keep it back, oh he would be so very, very angry with her-

“Sansa, Sansa, love, it’s me, it’s Theon, you’re safe, listen to my voice, Sansa,” Theon’s words cut through the fog of her panic. 

Distantly, as if looking through a spyglass, she saw him take the box from her and hide the tool in it, before shutting it away in a desk drawer. Theon bent down so their eyes were level, still speaking soothing words to her; he held out his hands but did not touch her, letting her choose whether or not to take them. Her arms moved sluggishly from their limp position at her sides, bringing her hands to meet his. With her fingers numbly moving against his own, she sought the well of strength he provided, breath coming down from painful hitches as his touch anchored her to the here and now.

“Th-theon,” she stammered, her mind slowly coming back to her body; there were tears cooling on her cheeks, and she wondered when they had been shed. “S-sorry, I’m sorry, I-I thought-”

“Shh, it’s alright, love, you don’t need to be sorry about a thing,” Theon answered, his calloused palms warm and sturdy against her soft lady’s hands. His smile was a little sad, but understanding. “It was a nice idea, but we don’t have to do anything with it, now or ever. We do what’s right for us, yeah?”

Sansa nodded furiously at that, the knots in her stomach loosening. Theon would _never_ hurt her that way, he’d never make her do something she didn’t want to do. Slowly, keeping their hands clasped, Theon drew her up to standing and walked her to the settee, away from the desk and the drawer and the box, his soft voice holding the promise of gentle arms around her and a calming tea to soothe her.

Yes, it had been a nice idea, but that was all it was: an idea. The dreaded tool could rot in that drawer for all she cared.

\---

It sat there undisturbed for about a fortnight, and perhaps it would have stayed there even longer if Sansa didn’t happen to spy him with it. Theon was holding the tool in one hand, while he examined the accompanying papers with a studious focus. Having had some time to distance herself from her prior panic, the sight of the object didn’t evoke the same terror in her as before; though she steadfastly refused to let herself imagine it entering her body, certain it would undo her calm. She cleared her throat lightly to alert him of her presence, and Theon’s eyes jumped to meet hers, a flush across his cheeks.

“Hello,” she chanced a smile to let him know she was alright. He responded in kind, seeming unsure what to do with the items in his hands. Wanting to avoid an uncomfortable silence, Sansa tried again.

“Is there something interesting in the papers there?”

“Oh,” Theon glanced back at the papers in his hand, as if he’d quite forgotten they were there at all. “I was just reading about the, um, different ways… ah, that is, how it can be used…” he trailed off, uncertain.

While Sansa appreciated his attempt to approach this issue delicately, she rapidly found herself becoming annoyed that this was even necessary. The night before, Theon had put his mouth on her with such intensity that she saw stars when she peaked: surely they could work through this and speak plainly, just as they did with every issue.

“Theon, what does it say?” she said, this time unwavering.

“What about if, instead of using it like we’d planned, we switched it?”

“You mean,” Sansa hesitated a moment, steeling herself to push past the awkwardness. “I use it on you?” 

Theon’s answering smile was bashful, almost childlike if not for the subject matter. 

“Nothing says we can’t, yeah? See, the band here can be put on so this part faces the other way,” he demonstrated this by rearranging it so the flexible protrusion curved back past the base instead of running parallel to the main piece. “So when you wore it, you’d feel something as well.”

And, she realized, there would be no chance of her mind going to her past traumas, because she would be in complete control.

“You would really be alright with that? With me doing that to you?” she asked cautiously, not wanting him to feel like he couldn’t refuse her. But if the look in Theon’s eyes was anything to go by, such concerns were unwarranted.

“My lady, if you’d like to, then I’d gladly have you fuck me.”

Her mouth went dry. Theon smirked. Gods be good, what was she to do with this man?

“Alright then,” she said in her primmest, most proper voice. “Bed.” She’d meant that to be a request, not the order it had come out as. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to mind, practically tripping over his feet in his eagerness to obey.

Theon dropped the tool on the table next to the bed, spinning around to catch her by the hip and pull her in. She drew him flush against her body and pressed their lips together in a hard, hungry kiss. It was a race to get undressed then, both of them shedding their garments as fast as possible and letting them puddle at their feet, until they stood in just their underthings. She stumbled for a moment, her foot caught in her hose, but Theon caught her and let the momentum carry them backwards until they hit the edge of the bed and tumbled onto it. 

Sansa giggled against his mouth, the sound light and airy like a tinkling bell, breaking away just long enough to clamber on top of him. When she pulled her shift up over her head, her hair flew for a moment before cascading around both of their heads, a curtain shielding them in this private little world they’d made. Theon’s hands flew from her waist to cup her breasts, thumbing her nipples to hardness. She whined at his touch, and ground down eagerly against his pelvis. He coaxed her to lift herself up just enough so he could shuck off his braies. 

Now with nothing between them she set herself back down, rolling her hips until he couldn’t help but buck up into her wet heat. Sansa could have happily let them continue along this route, but she remembered the object that had inspired this moment, and now that she was confident in their plan of action she was eager to see it through.

When she climbed off of him Theon started to moan at the loss, but stopped when he saw what she was reaching for. She brought a vial of oil along with the pleasure tool, smiling rather bashfully at what they were about to do.

“How shall we…” she stammered a bit, now that she could properly feel the girth of the thing. She had pleasured him plenty of times with her fingers, but they seemed so much thinner in comparison; many women bled when they lost their maidenhead, even when their man was careful. Sansa didn’t know if it was the same with men in this way, but she couldn’t bear the thought of Theon being hurt the way she had been.

“Start with your fingers, like we usually do,” he explained, easing her uncertainty. “Just go slow, you won’t hurt me.”

While Sansa put the tool aside and made sure her fingers were proper slick with oil, he wriggled up to lean back against the pillows, only to stop when an idea came to him.

“Wait,” he said and she paused, watching as he turned over to rest on his hands and knees. He looked over his shoulder at her, throwing her a look that was an absurd parody of the come-hither expression the Wintertown whores used to entice men in. She couldn’t help herself, breaking down in laughter at the pose he’d struck, and he quickly followed, laughing so hard he had to lower himself to his elbows.

Gasping for breath, she dove down to steal another kiss, heedless of the mess her oily fingers left along his cheeks. Resting on her side, her head laid on the same pillow as his, they traded kisses until the need for air forced them to part. 

Sansa was a vision, her face flushed with pleasure and lips plump from kisses, with that beautiful red hair splayed out around her head. 

_Fuck the gods, the old and the new,_ Theon thought imperiously. _She is the only one I could ever worship before._

Her eyes searched his carefully, bright blue meeting sea green, watching for any hint of discomfort.

“You’ll tell me if you feel any pain, yes?”

“Always.” He swore.

That was enough for her, and she was at his backside again, tipping the vial to let a thin stream of oil drip down between his arse cheeks. The oil warmed almost instantly upon contact with his skin, and he moaned at the feel of it slipping past his hole, down his taint and over his scarred mound to dribble off his stub, as erect as it could be.

He yielded easily to the first finger so she was quick to follow with a second, stroking along his inner walls. Rather than searching for that inner spot that drove him wild, she concentrated on opening him up, allowing the slick, warm oil to soften his muscles and take her fingers in deeper. Sansa debated momentarily over whether two fingers was enough, but decided she’d rather play it safe and go for a third. 

Theon’s legs trembled as he pushed back against her, moaning at the delicious stretch. His head dropped down to hang between his shoulders, as if he hadn’t the strength to hold it up any longer. When Sansa next spoke, the voice that tumbled from her lips was so husky and wanton she barely recognized it.

“Ready?” Theon actually _mewled_ at that, and she withdrew her fingers from him as smoothly as she could, attention turning to the object next to her. Sansa nervously wiped her fingers on the sheets and gathered up the tool, fumbling with its nest of straps. Perhaps she should have put this on before they’d started, but the idea of working Theon open while this thing jutted clumsily out seemed a dreadfully embarrassing move for this already awkward encounter, so she spurred herself to not overthink it.

With just the faintest tremble in her fingers, Sansa fitted the tool in place, adjusting the straps so it held snug. Feeling more than a little silly, she gripped the tool like she imagined a man would hold his cock and gave an experimental thrust. As the tool slipped through the ring of her hand and the side of her palm met the base, the extra piece rubbed against her pearl, unhooded from the sight and sounds of her lover’s pleasure. It felt like a single finger, just light enough to make little bolts of pleasure quicken in her belly.

Sansa draped herself over the curve of his back, the tool dragging through the mess of oil between his cheeks. Theon groaned at the sensation, a hitch in his breath telling her he was close to begging.

“Turn over,” she murmured in his ear. “I want to see your face.” Faster than she had expected given the state he was in, he’d flipped over, sprawled out across the pillows. 

His eyes were slightly glassy with pleasure, but he lit up at the sight of her between his legs.

“Oh Sans,” Theon breathed, her name a prayer, as he used his shins to nudge her closer in. “Please, Sansa, gods yes-” She swallowed his babbling with a kiss, and grabbed a spare pillow to tuck under his hips. Checking that the tool was properly slicked with oil, she held him steady and carefully guided it to his hole. The ring of muscle opened for her with almost no resistance, so relaxed from her earlier ministrations, and the tool slipped inside, one inch became two, became three, until it was fully inside and her pelvis was flush against him. The nub pressed back against her pearl harder now, and she gave into the urge to rut against it.

Theon’s gasping litany, “Sansa Sansa _Sansa!_ ”, let her know that the pleasure tool had found his inner spot, and she pressed forward again, fucking into him in slow strokes that made his eyes roll back. He arched up off the pillows, head thrown back; with the weak afternoon light streaming through the windows and catching the long line of his neck, he seemed to glow. With every forward stroke of her hips, the energy seemed to reverberate through his whole body, making even his curls bounce with the force of it.

The feel of the nub rocking back against her made the pressure between her legs build and build, but it wasn’t quite enough on its own to bring her to her peak, and she expected Theon would reach his sooner.

Sure enough, it only took a few thrusts before his quivering thighs clenched, and he panted sharp and breathy little sounds, and his abdominals tightened, and he spurted that curious bit of fluid that accompanied his release.

Struck dumb by his orgasm, Theon lay boneless as he worked to recover his breath. It didn’t take long, as the tool still inside him moved with Sansa’s shifting, desperate as she was to chase her own release. Pushing past the fog, he worked the straps loose, letting the tool drag out of him with one last delicious stroke. Sansa keened as his efforts to remove the tool caused it to bump against her clit, and he hurried to undo the straps and give her what she needed. 

Letting the tool fall carelessly to the side, Theon pulled her up to sit on his face, her hands flying to twine through his curls as he put his mouth on her, laving her pearl and allowing his tongue to dart back into where she was sopping wet. With her thighs on either side of his head he could barely hear her moans, but the way she rocked against his mouth let him know he was pleasing her right, and he grinned into her quim with the joy of knowing he could satisfy his lady so well.

Her fingers tightened, pulling his hair just enough to tell him she was close, her thighs quavering, her cunt clenching as he lapped at her clit, before she reached her peak, trembling as it rolled through her. With barely enough energy to move, feeling like she’d been riding a horse for hours, Sansa mustered just enough strength to climb off of him and flop down boneless next to him. Once their breaths eased, she turned to look at Theon, who looked just as thoroughly debauched as she felt.

“That was…” he started, seemingly at a loss for words.

“Yeah,” she mumbled back, feeling too sated to try for anything more eloquent. Curling into his side, Sansa buried her nose in the hollow of his throat and pressed little kisses there, far too exhausted to start anything else but still desiring to taste him.

“We,” she declared in between kisses. “Are definitely doing that again, right?”

“Right now?” Theon teased, clearly as wrung out as she was. “Seven _hells_ , Sans, you’ll have to give me a moment. Thankfully,” he searched the tangled blankets for the pleasure tool and, finding it, brandished it victoriously in the air. “This fellow is ready to go whenever you are!”

Sansa shook with laughter, which then spread to Theon, and soon both of them were laughing so hard they gasped, safe and whole and filled with love.

**Author's Note:**

> Title paraphrased from this poem by Lord Byron: "There is pleasure in the pathless woods, there is rapture in the lonely shore, there is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar; I love not Man the less, but Nature more." Only a quote inspired by the OG hoe would do for this piece!
> 
> I researched ancient sex toys so you don't have to; suffice to say, humans have always been very creative, and very horny.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at gingersprites, hit me up there for more of my bullshit.


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